


The Ghost of London

by Uchihas_rose



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Ghosts, Ghosts of Great Britain, Happy Halloween, Hauntings, Hurt Sebastian Moran, Jim died, Jim haunts London, London, M/M, Modern London, No seriously he is dead, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock's ghosts, Spooked Mycroft Holmes, Superstition, did you miss me?, mentions of serial killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:22:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27263431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Uchihas_rose/pseuds/Uchihas_rose
Summary: There is a new ghost in London, haunting the capital. Especially on a day like Samhain.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	The Ghost of London

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lyrae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrae/gifts).



London is full of ghosts. Everyone knows it. Jack the Ripper, Neil Heath, John Cristie and Dr. Hawley Crippen are some of the older and more famous ones who still roam the proud capital. But there are newer ghosts of equal fame whose names make those who encountered them and heard of them still shiver slightly.

For Sherlock, a ghost has never been more than a mere shade, a memory of someone. Sherlock has carried his own ghosts with him all the time – the victims of the murders he has solved, the criminals who have died in front of him. Jefferson Hope haunts him sometimes, whispering to him _I’ve played four times, I never lost._ He rattles the little glass bottle with its pills, encouraging him to choose.

Sherlock can ignore these ghosts. They’re part of his mind palace, in a way, like every other case he has solved; they’re filed and stacked in a cabinet and usually, they remain in there, quiet, peaceful, unless Sherlock opens the cabinet to review them and their methods.

This new ghost is different, though. This ghost is more than just a whisper in the night, easily put back in place. It’s a graffiti at the house opposite to 221B. It’s a half eaten apple lying on the table and every time, Sherlock expects to find I O U carved into the other side. It’s hearing Staying Alive played on the radio of a car that’s driving by. It’s the book of Grimm’s Fairy tales lying on the shelf. It’s the roof top of St. Bart’s, a place he’s never been to after the Incident. It’s the smell of a freshly discharged gun, of a bullet that finds its way through skull and flesh. It’s the _Did you miss me?_ that has been flashed all over the country. It’s the Tick Tock Tick Tock Sherlock hears whenever there’s a manual clock nearby and he turns around, eyes darting across the place.

It’s the smell he sometimes notices in the flat, the threads he finds lying on the floor or in his chair, from a suit that no regular visitor to Baker Street ever wears.

 _Westwood_.

Sherlock knows this new ghost in London only too well and he knows that he isn’t the only person to encounter him.

Jim Moriarty is everywhere in London, everywhere around him, clinging to him and it’s not just the Moriarty Sherlock keeps locked in his Mind palace, chained to the wall like an animal.

He’s the magpie that caws every morning before the window. He’s the story of Sir Boast-a-Lot that Sherlock can still hear sometimes being read in kindergartens or elementary schools. He’s the Crown Jewels, safely behind new glass again and a new barrier which people aren’t allowed to cross. He’s in the IT-department of St. Bart’s, he’s a pink cell phone in an evidence locker at Scotland Yard.

Sometimes, he’s a whisper in Baker Street. A brown eye ball that no one seems to know where it came from and that’s still staring at Sherlock with an intensity unnormal for an eye without body. A faint sound in Sherlock’s ear.

_In a world of locked rooms, the man with the key is king…_

Sherlock knows how that sentence ends. Still, he hears it everywhere, not just in his head.

It’s a message written on the bathroom mirror.

_Honey, you should see me in a crown._

There are messages everywhere; he hears them, whispered to him by a bodyless voice with an Irish accent, accompanied by little threads of Westwood suits.

_Sherlock…_

That voice, that well-known voice, whispering to his ear, even though he tries his best to ignore it. He can’t let anyone know. After all, there’s no such thing as ghosts, right?

He hears him laugh, can almost see him shaking his head in mocking pity.

_Oh, Sherlock… There have always been ghosts in London… London is a great city for ghosts, wouldn’t you agree?_

_Yes_ , Sherlock thinks, because he is right, London is indeed a great city for ghosts, but people do not believe in ghosts.

 _Ordinary people don’t_ , he hears him whisper, _it’s above them to believe in the supernatural. They do not understand it. But you do. I know you do._

 _What do you want from me?_ , Sherlock asks him quietly, but he knows the answer already.

It’s what Moriarty always wanted – a distraction, a way out of boredom.

 _Isn’t being dead entertaining enough for you_ , he asks and again, Jim laughs.

_There is nothing more entertaining. You’d know if you had actually jumped. It’s so much more fun to cause trouble if you are dead._

That’s why he is here, Sherlock knows, it’s not just because of boredom, it’s revenge, the revenge he didn’t get from Eurus – he is still wondering who was using who on that matter – and the disappointment of having to spent eternity alone for now, because Sherlock, matter of fact, didn’t keep his word.

 _You didn’t join me to shake hands in hell_ , Jim complains and Sherlock flinches, _you disappointed me again. You are an angel, after all._

Sherlock knows it isn’t true, but it’s pointless to argue with the dead. Jim isn’t a soul that wants to be laid to rest and find peace in the afterlife; Jim wants to have fun.

 _You’re me_ …, he hears echo through the flat, just before John walks up the steps, _bless you, Sherlock Holmes…_

Then John enters the flat and the door slams shut behind him like a gunshot and Sherlock flinches, unnoticeable for anyone.

And Jim laughs.

Mycroft Holmes never believed in ghosts and there is no way he is going to start doing it now. For him, hauntings are nothing more but the attention seeking attempts of ordinary people who don’t know anything better to do with their lives.

There are no ghosts and believing in them is stupid, just like claiming that there are days where the veil between the words is thinner.

There are no worlds or a veil. There is no such thing as an afterlife. People are born, they live and then they die. That’s all. No ghosts, no hauntings, no spirits.

 _Liar_.

Mycroft ignores it, because that voice isn’t real. Someone is playing a prank on him; whoever does so will pay. This is a recording, nothing else. A very bad one, too.

_Liar, liar, pants on fire._

Mycroft grinds his teeth, ignoring the whisper. The papers on his desk flutter suddenly and annoyed, Mycroft looks an open window or some other kind of draught, since for sure it must have been a gush of wind and nothing else.

_You didn’t bother paying attention to me while I was living, do not ignore after my death as well…_

He says nothing. It’s pointless to engage into conversation with a stupid prank.

 _Iceman_.

A muscle in his jaw twitches; Mycroft keeps staring at his laptop, typing on the keyboard, focusing all of his attention on the task he is doing right now.

_I will fry your circuit if you keep ignoring me. I hope you made some back-ups…_

Something is blowing into his ear; he waves a hand impatiently. A fly, nothing else.

The papers flutter again.

_Keep lying to yourself, if it helps you feel any better…_

The laptop turns black. Mycroft curses and restarts it, hating it when electronic freezes. He hopes the auto-save has been working, so he doesn’t have to do all the work again.

He opens the document and finds all of his current project gone. Instead, there is only one sentence written, repeating itself over and over again.

**DIDYOUMISSME?DIDYOUMISSME?DIDYOUMISSME?DIDYOUMISSME? DIDYOUMISSME? DIDYOUMISSME? DIDYOUMISSME? DIDYOUMISSME? DIDYOUMISSME? DIDYOUMISSME?**

**DIDYOUMISSME?DIDYOUMISSME?DIDYOUMISSME?DIDYOUMISSME? DIDYOUMISSME? DIDYOUMISSME? DIDYOUMISSME? DIDYOUMISSME? DIDYOUMISSME? DIDYOUMISSME?**

His lips tighten. A hack, of course, he better sets Anthea on it, before there is any more damage done to his network, before any information can be leaked, critical to the defence of the whole country. A shiver runs down his spine, involuntarily. He immediately shuts the laptop off, to keep damage to a minimum.

_Are you going to listen to me now?_

This isn’t real. It’s a hack.

_Oh, you poor man…_

Mycroft does his best to ignore the mocking whisper. It’s not real, he keeps telling himself, it can’t be real.

James Moriarty is dead. His death has been confirmed by Mycroft’s people and he has seen the corpse himself, with his own eyes.

He is dead.

_Are you sure?_

“Of course I am!”, Mycroft says angrily, before he curses at himself. Why is he even playing along that stupid joke? Whoever has done it, has clearly no idea who they are dealing with…

There is laughter, laughter all around, a triumphant, sharp giggle, getting louder and louder.

The lamps in the office are flickering. For just a second, Mycroft thinks he can see a silhouette appearing near the window, a far too familiar shape.

His palms start sweating.

This isn’t real. This. Is. Not. Real.

 _This is very real_ , the voice says; the light flickers again, staying on just long enough to illuminate the silhouette standing in front of the window.

A man, not tall, dark hair lying flat on his head, a tuft of beard on his upper lip, dressed in a navy blue suit – Westwood – and dark shoes, flashing a toothy grin at Mycroft, before he starts whistling.

_Staying Alive._

Moriarty watches him and Mycroft doesn’t move.

A trick. It must be a trick.

_Still thinking that?_

The voice is in his head this time; he shakes himself vigorously.

No. No, it’s not true.

Laughter fills the room and his head, mocking laughter, and it’s coming from everywhere.

No... There are no ghosts. Believing in ghosts is stupid.

The lights flicker again, on and off, off and on and Moriarty stands at the window, watching him.

_Do you want some proof?_

The figure on the window turns around, presenting an open skull with bits of brain clinging to the inside...

A scream echoes through the room. It takes Mycroft a while to realise that he is the one screaming.

Moriarty turns around again, grinning.

_Do you believe me now?_

Leave, Mycroft wants to scream, why are you doing this? Leave, leave me alone!

 _No...,_ Moriarty whispers, smirking, eyes glistening maliciously, _what would be the point? You’ll never forget me, Mycroft Holmes... I’ll make sure of that._

The flesh falls off him, the muscles, until there’s nothing more but a skeleton with a busted skull, grinning.

 _Never_ , the skeleton says, its eyes gleaming unnaturally, _never, never, never._

The lights turn off all at once, before slowly flickering back on.

Moriarty has vanished – or so it seems. But Mycroft can still feel him around, like a virus in the database and he knows, he will come back. Whenever he’ll get bored, he’ll come back.

He’ll never be forgotten...

Sebastian is familiar with ghosts. He has to be, after serving in the military.

The Military is full of ghosts. It has never bothered him. Not much, anyways. There was no reason for it. A new ghost was like a bagged tiger – a trophy. It never bothered him that some of these 'trophies' were members of his own unit. It was war, after all. Killing was exactly what was expected of him. Over the years, it had become his second nature. Mayhaps his only nature. He is good at it. Too good and at some point, the Army noticed.

Dishonourable discharge or leaving of his own accord, those are the options he was confronted with. Sebastian chose to leave or rather, he had to leave due to an injury.

Sebastian chuckles darkly and takes another sip of the whisky bottle in his hand. At that time, he had thought to lose everything after being kicked out of the Army. He had nothing, literally nothing. His father had disgraced him long ago and since he had been lying more dead than alive in a ship’s cabin, he hadn’t been able to provide himself with a small fortune earned by gambling with the other people on the ship. He had nothing when he arrived.

Jim had saved him. He had provided with money, a new life and the possibility to do what he could do best. Jim had never judged him.

And now…

This ghost is not like the other ghosts that surround him. He is familiar with these ghosts. They are his trophies, his achievements; he is proud of these ghosts. But that new one is different.

He senses him everywhere around their flat at 44 Conduit Street. In the whisky on the shelf that was always his favourite, in the wardrobe where his suits are hanging… Sebastian has given Mrs Halifax the task to keep them free from dust and in excellent shape. As if he’s expecting him to come back eventually, some day…

Jim is everywhere, clinging to him like a shadow. He can hear his scolding whenever Sebastian lights another cigarette inside their flat or extinguishes the smoke on his skin after finishing it up.

He is the only ghost Sebastian does not want to have around. There is no pride in having Jim around, only pain and loss. A memory that hurts him, a haunting.

At the same time, he knows that losing Jim’s ghost would be even worse.

_Tiger…_

Sebastian flinches upon that familiar nickname; doing his best to force a sob back down his throat. He doesn’t look up, he can’t look up, seeing Jim’s face.

_Sebastian, please…_

“Shut up!”, Sebastian yells without looking up, “shut the fuck up!”

He tries not to cry. It has been years since he ever cried over the loss of a comrade – what good is it? Crying does not bring them back and there is no sense in spilling tears. Except for the loss of liquid which will prove fatal in a country like India. Death was a part of life, especially in war and there was never time to properly cry for the fallen among them, so what good will it be now?

He hears nothing after that and his heart aches, knowing that Jim is gone.

Slowly, he sets down the bottle, grabs the suit next to him and wraps its jacket around him before he curls up on the expensive Persian rug. For the first time in years, Sebastian cries.

There is a new ghost in London. Jim hasn’t expected to stay in London, but he isn’t surprised about it either. London is a great city for ghosts, after all. He is in good company. London has always been a part of him, ever since he left Ireland. He was expecting to find himself in Hell, though, since he hasn’t some unfinished business set on earth, after all. His revenge is set already and sooner or later, the plan will take place. He has nothing to worry about. Even boredom isn’t as bad anymore.

He enjoys this new existence. Life after death is so much more exciting, after all.

Especially on days like Samhain.


End file.
